


Triptych

by aabbey



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Endgame, F/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aabbey/pseuds/aabbey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janeway helps Tuvok through his pon farrs. Set in the Endgame universe. 23 years in space divided by seven equals three point something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptych

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago. Still in the processing of cleaning up existing fic and moving it over here. This is an odd, melodramatic story. But then most pon farr stories probably are.

When the time comes, she is waiting. Tuvok leaves his quarters, is careful to walk at his normal pace. The Captain is standing in his program, one of Vulcan. The red earth is hot; there is not a building in sight.

When he approaches her, she does not move. Her face remains fixed until he presses his fingers along her jaw, cheekbones, temples. She does not trouble him with words. She does not touch him. That will come later.

He makes the meld slowly, so as to not overwhelm her in the fever. Not yet. Tuvok has known his captain's mind before, in other melds, in Borg cubes. It is a comforting connection, edged with anticipation, and maybe anxiety.

 _Tuvok_ , she says in her mind. _I've arranged the shifts. What do you need?_

He needs nothing else.

There is no breeze, and no noise. His hand trembles at her collar; he is relieved to find all reminders of rank already removed. He feels her pulse speed; his breath quickens. There is a strangled sob in her mind, and he needs to stop this cycle before it spirals out of control.

 _Out of control? I want_ —She struggles closer, twists her hand in his.

He notices that her feet are bare, boots in a row beside her. He is letting the little thoughts out, tracing her shoulders.

There is Kathryn's voice, thick against his mind. _Tell me. Tell me what you want. Trust me._

It is this he cannot withstand. He drops her hand, and leans toward her, head lowered. She circles around him, starts as he presses a shoulder against her. He can almost feel her smile against his mind as she begins running, legs turning over quickly.

He moves easily over the rocks; she is still near him. Her stride is long, as even as it can be over this terrain. On approaching a plain, she curves her course, zags from center to left. He follows this line of travel, and finds on the air the deep and strangely sweet smell of her blood, rising from a patch of rock and thorns.

He runs faster; is closer, now, and her breath is audible, pronounced. A stretch of soft red sand approaches, and it is sticky in front of him, beaded with this blood. Tuvok hunts, and he will catch her. This chase has fanned his fever; his body strains, his chest quakes. Her voice is ragged, her cry as he overtakes her, hoarse. He pins her to the sand easily, and pulls the brambles from her thin-soled foot, sucks the blood from it. Kathryn's leg twitches, arms tighten to pull him onto her. Tuvok wraps his fingers around her head, finds her mind again.

Vulcans do not limit touch because they abhor it. They do so as to not cheapen what touch is deemed important. This is one of those important occasions. Tuvok cannot pin down a coherent thought between them as he finds her body again, begins hurriedly working at her clothing. He runs a palm from her neck to thigh, not touching her slowly, but finding what pleases Kathryn most. Her face is bright, eyes narrowed by the sun. She pulls at him, and her mouth is hot on his, hotter as he traces the contours of her back.

 _Far too long. Far too long._ She has not been truly touched in years, this he knows.

 _Agreed_ , he can only add.

He does not know in this any line between giving and receiving, only that she cries aloud nearly from the pain of being touched, and that this is true all over her body. Tuvok does not need to give any assurance that he wants her, but he does; thinking of her strength, as he feels it; of the love she gives, while held in it.

He needs to hold her to the ground, to stop her from quaking away from his mouth, to further this bond. When she touches him, she is quick, her twining legs agile, fingers hard and soft by turns. He groans; in her mind, he can hear that the sound is strangely alien to her ears. The explored depth of her body is matched by his fever spiraling in her heat, her mind, and all control is soon gone.

 _I felt your fear_ , Kathryn thinks quietly, while moving hands in tandem across his back. _You didn't want to go over that brink. Lose power. Why?_

 _I can't. You don't need_ —Unbidden the thoughts come. _I'm losing control of my mind. I'm losing order. Logic. Soon, I will be mad_.

She tightens quickly; the lament a curse, and her kiss is fierce, unexpected. _Let that darkness out. I'll keep it in mine._

#####

During the seven years that pass, Tuvok wonders if she absorbed too much from him. Usually her face will be hard, even as it remains steady. It is because of Seven—this he can always remember, even as codes and meeting dates fall through his mind.

It is because Seven was killed. He does not remember how his friend was killed, but he could smell the Captain's newly-dried tears in her quarters the night she unnecessarily reminded him that death is final.

In the fourteenth year of the ship's journey, the Doctor tells him that he must find a suitable mate or die.

"The Captain will help me."

The Doctor nearly smiles. "Good, Tuvok. You remember that she will."

Tuvok would search for Holodeck time, would find her on Vulcan again, but recalls that the Holodecks have been broken. It has caused the crew much consternation. He walks the corridor, walks from Sickbay. He does not know where she is, cannot know which route leads to her.

And then there is the sure rapid step pulsing through the decking, and there is her hungry pace.

"I know," she says.

He grips her hand strongly, forcing her toward the bulkhead, like he knows she desires.

"Not here Tuvok," she says, as his brow breaks in sweat.

She opens a nearby door, and lets him pull her inside it.

"I still remember everything about you," Tuvok says, nearly pleading. "Do not be afraid."

"I won't," she promises, barring the door and moving to check for noises in neighboring rooms. "We're clear."

Tuvok knows this is what he is designed for, that this illogical fever is built into him, just as his illness is. There is not a bed in this room, only weapons lockers. He knows that this must be part of her plan, too. She does not want others nearby.

There is chaos, and then her voice commanding him firmly. Quickly, she fills in what he has forgotten about the last seven years. The ship attacked, and the repair teams that patched gaping holes. She thinks, slowly, of how Seven died. As she remembers being taken by the Fen Domar, remembers being away from the ship, Tuvok finds a container, sits her on it. Sharing this is difficult, but he remembers her return, remembers the peace that came with seeing her again.

Tuvok knows that it is illogical of him to worry, and she reminds him of this. She speaks into his mind that he is the same person he was, even though he would like to believe that this is not entirely true. Surely, he is not the same person who was ready to fight at any moment, who was a consistent officer. This should not be him.

 _I do not love you less_ , she thinks.

Kathryn is easily visible to his eyes, but her eyes see only his outline, at this moment. She repeats her last thought many times, tracing his side until her eyes have adjusted.

He is almost afraid to touch her. Is it his right, after these seven years? Would it dishonor the memories of others she loved?

Her thoughts are a haze, and she doesn't think it matters.

_I won't lose you, Tuvok._

Much has changed. But the strength of her voice, real or mental, hasn't diminished.

When she touches him, when she thinks, he can nearly believe that his recovery is feasible.

#####

There is darkness, and he shakes, cold with sweat. It is Kathryn's quarters, this he can smell. And she must be near him.

Tuvok first hears her steps, feels a hand encircling his shoulder.

"Open your eyes." There is work to be done. There is no time for him to be here. But it is an order.

Tuvok finds the Captain crouching beside him, in her dim quarters. "You passed out in the Mess Hall. Gave us a little scare. The Doctor ran a scan."

"I do not feel well."

"You aren't. Pon Farr."

Tuvok struggles slightly, upon trying to stand. It is then that he realizes that he is in her bed.

"Kathryn, I cannot. I am weak."

This is when nature will be rid of him. When he is unable to reproduce. He would die without Kathryn, just as surely as he would die for her.

Her hair has gone gray, and her face is well lined, but she moves no slower than she did in years past. She leans over him, pressing him swiftly onto his back. "Shh. We'll get through this."

She finds his head quickly, runs her hands up his jaw to his forehead, to where she can find his mind, if she concentrates, and if he does, as well.

A pain flows to him, her body creaks, heart beats fast. He is enveloped, and now free from it, sees the blindness these years have given him. Her face is sharp; the angles cutting into his own as she bends over him.

Cutting. Like a phaser burn, like heat of Vulcan. Like her hands.

Starving. A stomach quaking, pangs of limbs. She is starving, and there is no food that can fill her.

Tuvok leaves the business of discarding of garments to her. He is largely still, and does not interrupt her thoughts. It is a relief. She does not break their meld, even when it comes time for sleep.

I' _m going back fourteen years in time. To that Borg hub. I will make it work. I will go back for you. We aren't far from home, now. Not long._

Their joined hands twist on the bed as he protests. He remembers the surface of Vulcan; he remembers Earth, green and warm. There are his children, and T'Pel; her step slow and measured. He sees Kathryn's younger face, recalls the quick way she would smile at him, at anyone.

 _Please, stop_. Those thoughts hurt her.

One life. She may share with him, but can no sooner divide into more than one body than she can keep from being broken by this journey.

He argues that she cannot save him, only to lose herself. Even a starship captain is not omnipotent.

He knows immediately that she isn't inclined to care.

They do not break the meld. That night, Kathryn dreams of darkness, of falling through it. Tuvok makes his mind still, and observes carefully. He rises carefully, and finds her replicator. There are hours left in the night, and she can be made to understand.

He replicates flour, and water, salt, and yeast. He kneads them into dough, letting it ooze between his fingers. While it rises, he looks outside the ship to the stars that surround them. When he has completed three slender ropes, he presses them together, and begins to plait. One part over, then the other. A loaf forms.

The bread has been in the replicator for several hours when she wakes.

"You enjoyed baking, you remember?" Kathryn is pleased.

"Indeed."

There are three strands to this bread. She is hungry. They eat leisurely.

"You cannot do it. All parts are interwoven. You would change the timeline. Nothing would be the same," Tuvok says.

"But there would be one existence, and it would be whole."

Kathryn smiles, but her eyes are distant. Tuvok hands another piece to her, and looks back into space. It is shadowed and vast, just as his mind has become. Perhaps she is right. He trusts her; it is one thing he is sure of. Though the barriers in his mind surround him, as he trusts her, he trusts that one day, all in darkness shall be brought into the light.


End file.
